


Vermilion

by Ironfrost



Series: delusions of grandeur [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, i don't think fluff is a possibility with these two, jeez this was my attempt at writing fluff, modern!AU, one day, one day i'm gonna get the hang of it, suppose grantaire is in here somewhere as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:24:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironfrost/pseuds/Ironfrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly always paints with too much red when he's angry.</p><p> </p><p>“It's really good,” Bahorel says.<br/>"You have no sense of art,” Feuilly replies.<br/>“That's true. But your work is always good.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vermilion

**Author's Note:**

> Tried to write fluff to make up for the last fic I wrote, but my brain had a different plan, so I just went with it. It's set sometime before "Stumble home over twisted ice".
> 
> Also, there is a party going on over at barrikade.tumblr.com, you should totally come and watch me spiral into insanity.

It's just one of those days. One of those days where Feuilly locks himself up in his apartment, furiously working on an art instalment he has no plans of ever revealing to anyone. Except it's not just one of those days. Not when he's been at it for over a week. He hasn't talked to anyone, seen anyone, he refuses to pick up the phone or answer the door. His friends are used to this, as it happens from time to time, but that doesn't mean they're not worried. 

He hasn't eaten properly in days, and seems to be running purely on caffeine and nicotine. He is sitting next to the windows, chain-smoking and using way too much red. His canvas seems to be bleeding. He thinks of his parents.

His phone lights up again with a text, showing the contact photo of Bahorel. He sighs, puts down his brush, and picks up the phone.

“Yo. Kicked out of the apartment (again). Can I crash at yours?” 

Figures. Bahorel always gets kicked out of his apartment. He seems to be in a constant war with his landlord, although the evictions never last long. After a few days, when both have cooled down, Bahorel will go back, and everything will be back to normal. But until then...

“I'm working. Can't you stay at R's?” 

There is a brief silence, before the screen lights up again. 

“R's mad at me for some unfathomable reason. Come on, be a pal!”

Well, there isn't much of a choice, then. It's not that Feuilly doesn't like Bahorel, he does, he is just in one of his moods, where he doesn't want to talk to anyone, see anyone, be around anyone. But then again, Bahorel isn't just anyone.

“You know the way.”

Fifteen minutes later he hears the familiar rustling of someone running up the fire escape. In the years Feuilly has lived in this apartment, he can count on one hand the amount of times Bahorel has used the actual staircase. He sees a shadow leaning against the far end window, and a few seconds later Bahorel climbs in.

“It should worry me how easily someone can get through my windows,” Feuilly comments drily, not looking up from his work. “Really says something about the security of this place.” 

Bahorel grins.

“Not someone. Me. I have very nimble hands.” He demonstrates by wiggling his fingers in Feuilly's face, before he settles down on the sofa and lights a cigarette. 

“What are you working on?” he asks, blowing out smoke. Feuilly just shrugs.

“I'm not sure yet.”

“Well, you're pissy about something. You always use a lot of red when you're angry,” Bahorel says. Feuilly doesn't bother responding to that. 

“Why is R angry at you?” he asks instead. 

Bahorel makes a non-committal sound. 

“Dunno. We were down at the pub, talking about nothing in particular, when he just throws a hissy fit and leaves.”

Feuilly smiles reluctantly. Sounds just like Grantaire and Bahorel, although he doesn't believe the “nothing in particular” for a second. Bahorel probably said something mean or demeaning without realising. He does that sometimes. That's just how he is.

He finally manage to tear his eyes away from the painting, and looks at Bahorel. Whatever he was going to say disappeared into nothing.

“Did you get a haircut?”

Bahorel smiles sheepishly, and runs a hand through his hair. He is usually the kind one had to drag by the ears to a hair dresser in order to get his hair cut, after weeks of coaxing and scheming. 'I must really be out of the loop,' Feuilly thinks.

“Yeah, I thought it was about time,” he says. “What d'you think?”

Bahorel's long and shaggy hair has been replaced with a shorter and straighter version, and with one side cut completely short. Feuilly had never liked sidecuts or undercut, or any kind of cuts really, but it really suits Bahorel. He's pretty sure he got the sidecut just so he'd be able to show off the scar he has on the side of his head.

“Huh. Suits you,” Feuilly answers with a small nod, before going back to the painting. Bahorel just grins again, and comes over to sit behind Feuilly on the work bench. He throws the remains of the cigarette into the bowl of water Feuilly uses to rinse his brushes because he knows he hates it when he does that. 

“It's really good,” Bahorel says. 

“You have no sense of art,” Feuilly replies.

“That's true. But your work is always good.”

Feuilly can feel some of the tension and irritation he has been dealing with over the past days melting away slightly. It's annoying how easily Bahorel can manipulate him like this, and mostly without even knowing he's doing it.

Bahorel sneaks his arm around Feuilly's waist, and pulls him closer. Feuilly leans into him, momentarily forgetting why he was so angry in the first place. He closes his eyes, and tries to close down his brain too.

“When was the last time you got any sleep?” Bahorel asks, taking in the darkness under Feuilly's eyes. Feuilly just shrugs.

“What day is it today?” he replies.

“Thursday.”

“Oh.”

He feels himself shaking as Bahorel snickers.

“'Oh', as in 'seems like I haven't slept in several days', oh?”

“Something like that.”

Bahorel wrestles the brush out of his grip, and drops it in the glass of rinsing alcohol. 

“Right. Time for bed.”

Feuilly looks out the window.

“It's only nine!”

“Bed! You can walk on your own, or I can carry you in there myself!”

“I'll walk.”

“Pity.”

Feuilly gets up from the bench, and puts the painting out on the fire escape to dry. It's not so bad, really. Maybe a bit too much red. 

When he gets to the doorway into his bedroom, he turns around slightly.

“You coming?”

Bahorel, currently checking his phone, looks up, and sends Feuilly a wolfish grin.

\----

“Bahorel, where the hell d'ya go man Thought u were gonna sleep at my place -R”


End file.
